


Castle by the Sea (The End of All Days Remix)

by ignipes



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-04-02
Updated: 2006-04-02
Packaged: 2017-10-03 03:03:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignipes/pseuds/ignipes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the last day of his life. There ought to be at least one thing he's going to miss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Castle by the Sea (The End of All Days Remix)

**Author's Note:**

> A remix of "Earnest Grasping" by Jain: http://jain.mediawood.net/fiction/earnestgrasping.html.

He told his mother he was going out for a few hours. She was resting in her room, heavy curtains drawn against the mid-morning sun, and she acknowledged his words with a careless wave of her hand.

Regulus closed her door behind him and went downstairs. The portraits in the foyer watched him silently as he took his wand from his pocket. Blinking eyes and stern mouths, old-fashioned robes and pale skin, they seemed to be waiting, holding the breath they didn't have, and the only thing he could hear was the sound of his own heart.

He shook himself, feeling foolish, and Disapparated.

A moment later, he appeared amidst the cheerful noise and chaos of Diagon Alley on a Saturday morning.

-

The books above them are restless, shifting on the shelves, floating from one spot to another. Regulus watches _Cavalier Castles_ swap places with _Perilous Palaces_ and wonders how the librarian sorts them all out in the morning.

_Maybe they put themselves back,_ he thinks.

He doesn't realise that he spoke out loud until he hears a low murmur: _Or maybe they know better than she does where they belong._

He rolls over, stretching his arm across Remus' bare stomach, resting his head against Remus' chest. The stone floor is cold and hard beneath him, and he wonders briefly where his robes have got to.

_They're books, Lupin_, he says, not bothering to put any scorn in his voice. He turns his head, pressing a few kisses to Remus' sweat-slicked skin, then mumbles, _They don't know anything_.

Or tell anybody anything, but he doesn't say that.

Remus strokes his shoulders softly, running a finger up and down his spine. His skin is warm against Regulus' back, his reply a low rumble against Regulus' ear: _You don't know that._ It is a tone of voice that suggests there are many things he doesn't know.

Above them, _Enchanted Seaside Haunts_ and _Gruesome Tales of Freebooters' Fortifications_ dance in a slow, lazy circle, pages rustling quietly like leaves in a breeze.

-

There was a small crowd around the puppeteer in Diagon Alley. Sticky-fingered children and disinterested parents watched the marionettes dance in a crooked, painted box, laughing as the puppet with the yellow shock of hair chased the puppet with the top hat, brandishing a wooden bat. The bat spun out of the puppet's hand, hovered above the top hat for several seconds, then thwapped down on the other puppet's head and released a burst of colourful sparks.

The children in the audience shrieked with approval as the marionette removed his crushed top hat and slunk away, his jointed limbs drooping.

Regulus tucked his hands in his pockets and turned away. The children's laughter and puppeteer's voice faded as he walked along the street, weaving through the Saturday crowd. He passed the shops with their cluttered windows, brightly-painted signs and hand-lettered advertisements: apothecary and cauldron shop, sweets and ice cream, tea and owls, broomsticks and potions. He had a handful of sweaty coins in his pocket. They rattled with every step, a faint sound he could just hear beneath the racket of the Alley.

Motion in the window of Flourish and Blotts caught his eye. Regulus stopped and peered through the window. Behind the glass, a flock of small books flitted about, their covers bright, iridescent mosaics in every colour of the rainbow.

Regulus leaned closer to the window, and several of the butterfly books fluttered, bumping into the glass gently just in front of his face.

-

There are dozens of messages carved into the tabletop. YT + GD = 4EVER. FRANZ WAS HERE. BADGER BOLLOCKS. M LOVES A. Regulus traces the carved letters with his fingertips, noting the difference between the old initials, smooth and worn, almost absorbed into the polished surface, and the fresher cuts, rough to the touch.

_When did he turn into such a grind?_

A neglected arithmancy book is open beside him; the ink on the last few words of his assignment is long dried.

_I didn't think he knew what homework was._

He picks up his quill again and taps it absently on the ink pot. The feather is ragged and clumped. He left his things in the common room again last night, and somebody's cat had got hold of it.

_Plotting evil._ The words carry across the room, too loud. There are annoyed whispers all around.

_Use your inside voice, Sirius,_ Regulus thinks, echoing the scolding of their long-dead Latin tutor. He risks raising his head to glance their way.

Lupin is looking right at him. He smiles, and Regulus' heart skips in his chest. He stares stupidly for a moment, his face growing hot, then returns the smile and looks down quickly.

_Oh, that's splendid,_ he thinks, chewing on the end of the quill before he remembers that somebody's cat had chewed on it, too. _You're a bloody smooth bloke, no denying it._

With a sigh, he begins tracing a long, curved line on a scrap of parchment, a vine or a snake or nothing at all. If he can be certain he won't get caught, he thinks he might try carving something into the tabletop.

-

The door to Flourish and Blotts opened with a noisy jingle of bells, and a cluster of plump, red-faced witches emerged, chatting animatedly and holding glossy new hardback books under their arms. Regulus hurried to catch the door before it closed, and he stepped inside the shop.

The door jangled shut behind him, and at once he felt the quiet, dim, book-scented calm of the shop surround him. He stopped at the window display and extended his hand into the cage. One of the tiny butterfly books rested on his finger, surprisingly heavy and solid, then immediately lost interest in his hand and fluttered away.

Regulus ignored the curious glance Mr. Flourish gave him and wandered amongst the stacks, running his fingers over the bindings and dusty shelves, murmuring quiet apologies as he slipped past other customers in the narrow aisles. He looked over the displays of new books, picked up one titled _A History of Magical Piracy_ and opened it to the inside cover--

_Don't be stupid._

The words on the dusty jacket blurred before his eyes, and his hands began to tremble. He set the book down quickly and leaned against the table, gripping the edge for a moment, forcing himself to exhale through the sudden, painful tightness in his chest.

He turned away from the table and hurried out of the shop. In the sunlight outside, he stood stock-still for a long while, clenching and unclenching his fists at his sides. Somewhere down the Alley a clock struck noon, tolling out twelve long rings.

"Don't be stupid," he said aloud.

A wizard in bright purple robes gave him a wary look. Regulus smiled.

-

The first time, it is Ancient Runes.

It's fast and awkward, a polite _thanks_, a sly _you're welcome_, and sudden pressure all along his body, the bookshelf sharp against his back, _what are you doing_ and _do you want me to stop?_, hurried hands tugging his robes up and a hot mouth on his neck, _don't stop, don't stop, don't stop_ echoing in his mind, catching in his throat as a hand closes around his cock, his face burning as he says, _I might not mind doing that again._ It's walking through the Ancient Runes aisle in the library every day for five days after that, even though he has no books to find there, pausing before the _s_ section and closing his eyes, then snapping them open and walking on, nervously, like a voyeur, looking over his shoulder to see that no one noticed. It's refusing to cast his gaze down, practicing what he'll say the next time, allowing himself to wonder what that cool, unreadable expression means when their eyes meet across two tables in the Great Hall.

The second time, it is Astronomy. He is sitting in the faded blue wingback chair hidden in a corner of the stacks, beneath an ancient painting of Ptolemy's universe. The planets and stars move in lazy charmed circles on the canvas, with the earth glowing in vibrant green and blue at the centre.

He is drawing idly on the back of his potions notes. Tall ramparts, jagged rocks, crashing waves, all of it in quick, messy lines, something that might be a memory or might be a story, if only he could remember which. It is growing late. The customary low hum of voices in the library has lessened, and he knows he should leave soon to avoid being caught out after curfew.

_What are you drawing?_

There is a hand on his shoulder, a body perched on the arm of the chair, pressed against his shoulder. He looks up, startled, and can't stop the foolish smile that breaks out on his face.

_Nothing important,_ he says quickly, flipping the parchment over and tucking it into his potions book.

_Good._ Remus' hand is firm on his neck, his breath warm against Regulus' ear. _Everybody's gone, you know._

Regulus twists in his seat. This chair is even more awkward than the Ancient Runes bookshelves, but Remus smiling at him, that knowing, mischievous smile that he never expects to see, leaning down to kiss him, and Regulus decides that it doesn't really matter.

-

Regulus walked away from the bookshop. The post office was about to close, but he slipped in the door just before the scowling witch could flip the sign. He quickly picked a postcard from the rack: a typical scenic view of a Scottish castle by a loch, the sort of card sold to tourists who remember relatives back home at the last minute.

The witch watched him with narrowed eyes and tapped her fingers impatiently as he dipped the borrowed quill into the ink pot and paused, thinking. A dozen words and phrases drifted through his mind, warnings and explanations.

Finally, he set the quill to the card and wrote: _Good-bye. I'm sorry. Thank you._ Then he scribbled the name and address on the lines and handed the card over to the witch with a few coins from his pocket. She passed it to an owl; the bird ruffled its feathers angrily before spreading its wings and swooping out the open window.

Regulus watched it go, regret for the pointless words settling like ice in his gut. The witch shooed him out of the post office, slamming the door behind him, and he found himself standing on the street once again, exhaling slowly and unclenching his fists.

_Stupid, stupid words_, he thought, looking upward as if he would still see the owl carrying the card away.

He started walking again. He would likely be dead by dawn tomorrow. It didn't matter what he wrote.

-

He catches Remus' wrists in his hands and flips him over, straddling his hips and looking down at him, frowning.

_You needn't look so happy about it,_ Remus says, laughing and arching upward. _What is it? You've hardly said three words all night._

It's History of Magic this time, fat dull books that nobody reads all around them, and they've remembered to lay their robes out on the stone floor before grasping and pulling each other down in a tangle of limbs and groping hands. Regulus can still feel the stone through the thin cloth, painful on his knees, but he ignores it and leans forward, kissing a line down Remus' chest.

_This,_ he says between kisses, _is the fucking stupidest thing I've ever done_.

Remus is very still for a moment, and Regulus feels him tense. He glances at Remus' confused expression and forces a smile.

_Knew it all along,_ he says, flicking his tongue out to touch the spot just below the faint scar on Remus ribs, _since that day at the train station when you thought I was Sirius._ This much, at least, is true: on the platform, pulling away from the station, carelessly waving his hand and saying _disowned, it's about bloody well time_ like it was Quidditch scores or idle gossip, staring out the window and watching England race by, _bad idea, bad idea, bad idea_ thrumming in his mind in time to the sound of the engine.

There's surprise on Remus' face now, and he relaxes slowly. _I had no idea,_ he says, and Regulus is certain that he's lying.

_Stupid idea then_, he whispers, and he knows Remus knew it from the start. Sneaking around after curfew, fucking on the cold stone floor of the library, avoiding each other's eyes during the day, hoping fervently but never saying that everything will go to hell if anybody finds out. _Stupid idea now_, and he knows Remus still knows it.

_Don't know about that._ Remus pulls one of his hands free and twines his fingers into Regulus' hair, laughing and squirming like he's not even listening. _Looks pretty ideal from where I'm watching._

_Fuck you, Lupin,_ he says, fumbling with the zip of Remus' trousers. _You know I don't have any ideals_.

-

Looking around the crowded street one more time, Regulus took out his wand and Disapparated. Diagon Alley vanished in a wink, replaced immediately by a windy, grey coast. The sun was not shining here, and the waves were rough, splashing the rocks below him with white, foamy surf. The breeze was brisk and smelled of salt and seaweed.

He was alone; there was no one amongst the jagged stones and fallen boulders at the base of the cliff. Regulus leaned forward, peering over the edge at the rough handholds that led down to the entrance of the caves half-submerged in the tide.

It was too early to go down to the cave, so he settled down to wait on the rocks, drawing his knees up to his chest. He reached into his pocket and closed his fingers around the locket and chain.

It was a terrible plan. He knew that. There was only a fraction of a chance it would work.

He pulled the locket out and held it up. It swung back and forth, a spinning pendulum, and the chain twisted and untwisted slowly. The day was too overcast; the locket didn't gleam or shine beneath the leaden grey clouds.

Regulus looked past the locket, over the ocean, watching a single bird soar across the waves. It was the worst idea he'd ever had. Or perhaps the best. It didn't seem to matter. He laughed out loud, a mad uncontrolled sound, and caught the locket in his fist. The metal was neither warm nor cold. It felt like nothing at all.


End file.
